Perfect Disease
by Bluejay73
Summary: Desmond searches to find meaning in (or distraction from) his nightmares. Insanity tries to alter his perception of reality, but in admits of chaos, his ancestor manifests before him as a panacea to cure his madness. Title inspired by the song "The Bleeding" by FFDP [Rated To Be Safe] [Multi-Chapter/In-Progress]
1. Chapter 1

Desmond was never good at flirting. Hell, when him and Lucy ever caught eyes, he couldn't let it last more than a few seconds. He would then turn away, a little embarrassed. He may even been terrified that he might have given her the wrong impression -or worse- the _right_ impression. That misty eye contact they occasionally shared did something to him.

But those moments came and went, just as one takes a shit.

The bartender laid hooked up to the Animus, simulating his ancestor, jumping roof top to view point to haystack and to any other obstacles oddly placed just where he needed them. Peculiar really, but all in his favor to escape the advancing guards. Lazy they became once the line of sight broke, leaving the simulated assassin to escape from his hiding spot.

Altair was the body, and Desmond was the mind. It was Altair's memories Desmond walked in. The latter could not feel the heat from the burning sun or the parched mouth the Arab had acquired, or maybe Desmond had ignored all of his senses and was too focused on reenactment. But in any case, when he was the assassin, Desmond secretly lied to himself, and he believed the world around was real.

Even if he was well aware that the Animus was not a time-machine, within it, everything looked so lively. The towns people were living lives, chatting to one another, carrying jars upon their heads, begging for money, and pushing anyone close to them away. Irony then strikes like vegans outside a slaughterhouse, and Desmond, distracted by a woman who was practically clawing at him for coins, was shoved away by a crazy old man, into another woman carrying a jar of water. How did he know it was water? Well it doused him _entirely_. This caught the guards' attention and, once again, Desmond took advantage of his ancestor's agility and ran.

The rush was more exhilarating than troublesome. It beat being locked up in a metal room, having every move watched, with an extreme lack of privacy from those _fricking_ surveillance cameras.

This is his only way to taste freedom within his imprisonment. The only way to feel human is to be in a machine, under the direct order of Warren Vidic, living out someone else's life.

After a long battle of strategic wordplay backed by logical explanation, Lucy finally convinced Vidic to relieve Desmond of his adventure, much to her superior's distaste.

"Now rest up, Mr. Miles. You have a _long_ day ahead of you tomorrow," the eldest said, stealing an evocating glance at the blonde woman. With that said, the man turned on his heel and exited the room through sliding doors.

Desmond stretched his arms and legs, stiff from lack of motion, while Lucy finished up whatever she does on the computer set aside the Animus. You know, Facebook and shit. A few words exchanged but nothing led up to anything special, and there was a lack of a "misty eye" moment.

Lucy left, and Desmond did some snooping, but he soon retired to his metal-box-of-a-room. Refusing to shower, knowing of the peeping tom camera set up in the bathroom, the man sat on the bed, contemplating between sleeping or sitting around. He was itching to do something, but the space was limited. His mind, however, was exhausted from his puppeteer-ing within the Animus. Rest is what he needed. But rest wasn't the only thing he got.

* * *

_"Awake."_

Visions of strange images danced upon the walls around him. The room was black in complete opposite with the white one he fell asleep in.

Sleep. Was he still sleeping?

Crimson symbols flooded his vision.

What does this all mean?

This wasn't the first time he had seen them, but now, the symbols wouldn't leave his mind. They were everywhere, engrossing his thoughts and constraining his mind from functioning aside from panic.

_"Awake."_

The voice came again. It was far too deep in his mind behind those goddamn symbols for Desmond to understand. It became buried within a chorus of others, screeching for understanding.

But the man had lost control of his rationality, forfeiting his fight to find reason for those images of red. He wished for them to go away, but those things were like pesky bugs that fly in your face that never seem to leave you alone.

He brought his head to his knees, his hands raking his fingers nervously through his short hair. His breathing was in haste, and his fingering began to dig, dig for answers, even if he had to rip his skull open.

_"Be still."_

A firm hand gripped Desmond's shoulder. His fingers instantly dropped, and all chaos vanished. His throat hurt; he had been screaming. The man turned his head back, and his eyes grew wide.

"Alta..."

His voice died when the man clad in white placed his fingers softly on Desmond's lips to silence him. Desmond was shocked as he noticed that he could _feel_ the man's touch. He was tempted to say something, but it was as if his tongue was numb, and he was unable to speak.

_"Awake..."_

He felt his eyelids grow heavy and soon they fell closed.

_"...Dezmund."_

And so he did.

* * *

"Wake up now. There is no time to waste today," came from a surprisingly cheerful Vidic, who entered with a skip in his step.

"What's got you in such a good mood, Doc?"

"Progress, Mr. Miles. Progress," was his only explanation. "Now let us get started."

Desmond complied, though curious of what happened to him. He walked out of his cell -er _'room'_- and picked up Lucy's gaze from her computer. She quickly stole her eyes and presumed her work, and Desmond brushed it off. He was in the twelfth century in a matter of minutes.

Being the assassin his ancestor was, he was quickly maneuvering around the city, hitting up his targets and reporting back before the blood could even trickle off his hidden blade. It was now easier for Desmond to tolerate these gruesome actions, not even wincing as he sent his blade into his prey's flesh.

He was becoming more like Altair, in a sense. He began to feel the routine of the assassin as if he was learning to comprehend _something_. He just didn't know what it was. The Creed perhaps? Or did he start to understand Altair? Of course he couldn't fully perceive Altair's inner thoughts because Desmond was controlling the assassin's body without registering a conscious. He was the puppeteer and this badass assassin was under his control, as much as the synchronization parameters would allow.

Desmond could actually get away with a lot of things that wouldn't quite be historically accurate, but let's elaborate on that tale another time.

Perched on an erect tower that would make anyone who would bother to look up think he was some fat ass bird, Desmond scanned the city through Arab eyes. He took a moment to breathe, basking in this leisure time his now possessed. A skyline he had only discovered days ago was his surroundings. A man he had never known before was his body. But he was still Desmond; he was still the man that had ran away from Assassin life who was ultimate thrown back into.

And Desmond lied to himself again.

He was still himself.

* * *

**A/N: If you are reading this then I congratulate you for being awesome and actually reading through this little chapter of mine! Try not to mind the errors and grammatical imperfections. It's my weakness!**

**I'm going to be very up front about this. In truth I myself had never actually played the first Assassin's Creed, but I have watched two different walkthroughs as well as played the whole Ezio Trilogy so yeah I sorta' know what I'm doing in a way, but if I post something completely against all relation to the whole Assassin's Creed world then I apologize, and you can point it out if you want, though I'm not likely to change it...**

**Reviews are nice, I enjoy nice things so if you want to go ahead but I would cry to myself if you guys hate this. Also, I know nothing of Arabic and i would like to throw some in here but I need help to see if I translated this right or not.**

**Continue or not,**

**~Blue[J]~**


	2. Chapter 2

Days had passed. The routine was drilled as followed: a snarky wakeup call courteously of Vidic followed by an extensive Animus session ending with the decision between sleeping through the nightmares or staying up until weariness knocks him out. Either way, those damned dreams couldn't be avoided, and Desmond had begun to live with them, troublesome as they are.

Not to mention the headaches.

God, those were a pain.

Desmond barely managed to reach the backroom's counter. He leaned for support with one hand as the other turned the faucet on. Risking his weak state, he used both to wash cold water on his face. He drank some, feeling slightly dehydrated.

How long was he in the machine this time? Ten, twelve hours?

He recalled how Lucy replied when he asked.

_"More than you should have."_

His head was in the toilet in a matter of seconds, spilling his stomach's contents.

Once there was nothing left to give, his shaky legs brought him out of the bathroom to his bedside. He stumbled and fell forward, landing gracelessly onto the linens. He grabbed a pillow and buried his nose in it. It smelt like a doctor's office, but he clutched it taut, trying to ward off the ache in his stomach and the endless throb in his skull.

The Black Room patiently awaited his return as exhaustion brought him forth in chains.

* * *

Enemies everywhere. Red smeared the shadowy floor, the black walls, and his bare hands.

His limbs felt too powerless to move, and a haze had washed over him. The grim environment began to consume, lapping first at his feet then rapidly climbing past his waist. Sluggish as he came to be, Desmond attempted to fight back, but his resistance was doubtlessly futile, and his mind remained foggy and senseless. He was helpless, lost within the ghastly delusion.

Amidst the sea of crimson and coal, a cyan silhouette briskly weaved through. It darted towards the forlorn man, reaching out.

All was at a standstill, and the flooding waves of scarlet were then vaporized.

Desmond got a short moment to witness a large hand approach his face before he was sent backwards and slammed to the ground behind him. His jaw was held sternly to the side while cold metal was fixed opposite on his neck. He instinctually closed his eyes, waiting for the blade to pierce him.

But it did not.

Desmond dared to peek.

He was pinned between a hooded man's knees. The latter was breathing laboriously, shoulders rising and falling with each silent gasp for air. The assaulter retracted his hands from the man beneath him, but suddenly fell onto Desmond, breaths exchanging heavily.

_"I got you."_

His voice was low, thickly accented, and said right in Desmond's ear. The words themselves sounded oddly foreign, but the nether man recognized the voice, and he let out a breath he had held in.

"You scared the shit out of me," was all Desmond could say to his predecessor. He looked up the assassin, perplexed by the odd and sudden arrival.

_"I was running forever..."_

The Arab took a deep inhale and exhale of air.

_"...but now I have you."_

The American thought strangely of this but couldn't find the words to utter his inquiry. Instead, he felt uncomfortable under the weight of the assassin, and Desmond reflectively acted on his disposition.

"Okay, okay. You 'got' me. Now would you please get _off_?"

Wordlessly, Altair rolled over and rested beside his descendant. As if their minds were in sync, neither found the urgency to move. The two remained put, staring up at the ceiling...'s _stars_?

"What in the...?" Desmond whispered to himself, bemused by the clarity of a night sky he had seen lifetimes ago.

He was in Jerusalem, looking up at constellations of stars, even finding the little dipper. He felt the dirt under his fingers, dry grass grazing his palms, and rocks poking into his back. A vivid illusion it may be, he knew better than to fall for semblance of the Animus.

However, his reasoning finally came, assessing that he was _dreaming_ as he vaguely remembered himself blacking out. This meant that this was his own deception he had created.

A fist grabbed his sleeve. The grip was firm, but Desmond rejected it's realty. His senses were deceiving him, pushing away his logic and deluding him to think that he was in a place far away from his imprisonment. But if he would open his eyes, he would be back at Abstergo, waiting to be hooked up to a simulator all day or until his nose bled.

This -_illusion_- wasn't the freedom he asked for, but the bartender was dubious if he'll get his wish in reality.

Desmond continued to question his endless chase from control, wondering when the end will be and when his sanity will escape him.

Inattentive to his action, his hand hovered the one clasped onto his sleeve. His finger tips softly settled on the other's skin. His mind was fishing for proof against its existence because he felt it -the warmth of life was there.

The other's hand gave away from the tension and relaxed as an implied response to the touch. Desmond's fingers trailed up and wrapped loosely around the man's wrist, and the tops of his digits rested on a specific, pulsating spot. That was another condition that made him second guess his perception of this dream or simulation.

Shit.

He couldn't tell the difference.

_"Dezmund."_

His racing thoughts were lost once he heard his name in that voice. It was as if the Arabic tone muted his pessimistic anguish, stealing his mind right out of his trouble and into a tranquil status.

Desmond hummed in reply, in total bliss of the newfound serenity.

_"You cannot stay here."_

The spell of peace and stillness in his mind was broken. The bartender ripped his hand away harshly and pushed himself to rise. Altair was quickly on his toes and already leaning over Desmond as he sat himself up. He held his hand forward to stop him.

"What?" Desmond asked, raising an eyebrow.

He was flicked on the forehead.

_"You must not move any longer."_

Then he was shoved down into the dirt with painful force, and the small stones stabbed his spine.

"What the hell-!"

Desmond was cut short by a stirn and curt command.

_"Silence."_

And he gave it.

_"Goodbye...for now."_

The man caught himself wanting to agree, but he was unable to part his lips. He was frozen still as a numbing sensation overtook his body. He only blinked once, and Jerusalem was gone.

* * *

** A/N: If you are reading this then I double congratulate you for not only reading the first but also the second chapter of this little story of mine! It gives me the warm fuzzies just knowing that people enjoy it enough to continue reading past the first chapter!**

**Thank you for the comments! They made me consider, smile, and crack up! You guys are too cool! **

**If you want to submit a review with any complaints, suggestions, or commentary -feel free! I read every one of them and take them to heart! **

**Carry on,**

**~Blue[J]~**


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